Open My Heart and Let It Bleed Onto Yours
by LizzehBoo
Summary: Stiles gets wounded and he and Derek have a little talk. Sterek. Unbeta'd.


**Author's Note: **Ahhh, my first shot at Sterek. Unbeta'd. Goofin' off. Enjoy.

* * *

It's cold.

Stiles shifts, his lip quivering. Snow is drifting down from the skies and melting on his skin. He tries to focus on it, remember what just happened. He can hear the sounds of howling in the distance, echoing around him, distorted by the bark of trees and the banks of snow. He tries very hard not to think about the pain in his gut. But it's kind of hard not to think about. He takes a shaky breath and tries to roll to his side.

"Aagh damn it," he hisses when the wound collides with snow, and he glances away from the red splotch he leaves. His breath puffs in front of him, a cloud of steam that raises toward the sky.

He has to get up.

He has to get up.

He has to.

Get up.

He drags himself forward but fuck the snow is just grinding into his skin and-

"Shit," he gasps, eyes watering. He buries his face into the ground for a moment and another and another, until his face feels numb.

"Scott?" He calls, and as he expects, there's no response. Maybe Scott can hear him somewhere, but he's definitely not close by. He keeps crawling.

His head is swimming. He keeps getting flashes of the fight, of the Alphas. Even in the blur, he can distinctly see their claws, gleaming in the moonlight, the glow of their teeth, marred with dripping blood. He grips a tree and pulls himself to his feet, slowly. The night goes quiet. The howls hush and he's alone. He slumps against the bark and it scratches at his skin. He's gotta keep moving. His clothes are soaked and he's freezing. Probably to death. He reaches in his pocket for his cell phone. What he pulls out is a crumbled mass of glass and plastic.

Awesome.

He uses the trees to steady himself as he walks, but he's disoriented. It's not like he has a crazy-good werewolf nose that can guide him places. Everything looks exactly the same in any season, but winter is tough. It doesn't usually snow in California, but, hey, it's Stiles's lucky day and the place is fucking blanketed in it.

"Man. Fuck winter," he says, stumbling forward, holding tightly to his gut. He can feel the gush of blood on his fingertips, and his imagination runs rampant. He envisions his organs toppling from his skin, the claws eviscerating him completely and leaving him a bloody pulp in the pure white snow.

He definitely doesn't like his brain right now. He would prefer if it would take a little break from the whole 'let's write a supernatural horror story' thing and focus on living. Probably a bit of a priority at the moment.

He wipes away at his brow, but only to leave the sticky residue of blood in place.

"Scott?" He calls again, but it sounds more like a cry than anything. "Anybody? Please!"

He keeps trudging. "_HELP!"_

He doesn't want to die. He can't die here. Not now. He hasn't gone to college yet. He hasn't even been laid yet. What a shitty way to go. Dying a virgin after being attacked by a fucking werewolf that everyone will say is a mountain lion. Like. Who does that? Just dies of animal attacks? It's not like he's not athletic. He could probably outrun a mountain lion. Maybe.

Regardless, it wasn't a mountain lion that attacked him anyway.

"Somebody..." his voice fades out into the trees.

Tears start pricking at his eyes, and the pain starts to wash over him along with the realization that he could very much die out in the snow. By himself.

Oh man. Not by himself.

The tears come fresh and he wipes them away, smearing blood like war paint over his cheeks. He thinks about his mom, wasting away in that hospital bed, surrounded by the people that loved her but completely lost to them. Alone. He doesn't want that. If he's going to die, he sure as hell wants to know that there's someone there to hold him through the scary parts.

"Help," he whimpers, and then he's falling, falling, falling.

He never hits the snow.

He's overwhelmed with the smell of leather, pressed against his nose, and the large hands clasped on his arms.

"Oh thank God," he gasps, which, hey, that's rare, because Derek Hale is not usually a sight for sore eyes.

"Where's Scott?"

"I—I don't know," Stiles breathes. "A-alphas."

Derek pulls Stiles back to look at him fully, his nostrils flaring as he smells him. "You're reeking of blood-" His eyes cast over Stiles's torso and flash red.

Stiles's vision blurs and he wavers on the spot. Derek catches him easily. "Put your arm around me," he commands, and Stiles does so. He doesn't really have the energy to be stubborn or contrary, even to Derek.

Derek scoops Stiles up like he's weightless and Stiles leans into Derek's shoulder. Only in his solid arms does Stiles realize how badly he's shivering.

"You're cold as ice," Derek murmurs. He kneels and presses his palm softly to Stiles's wound. Stiles makes an unrecognizable noise, scrambling back from the touch as the wound protests but Derek shushes him. "Shhh, hold on."

The skin on Derek's hand shifts dramatically to a new hue, black veins popping forth and swirling up his arm. The pain fades away to a dull ache and Stiles feels his muscles relax, his head falling back over the crook of Derek's other arm.

"It won't heal it completely," Derek says in a low voice. "So be careful." He lifts Stiles off his feet again, and then they're whizzing through trees.

Stiles is so tired. And so cold. He curls into Derek and closes his eyes.

When he opens his eyes, he's amazed by the warmth seeping into his skin. It takes a long moment before he gets his wits about him, his vision taking longer than usual to come back into focus. He can hear the crackle and pop of a fire nearby, cloaking the room in a warm glow. It dances up onto red bricks and across the wood floor. Through the giant picture window, Stiles can see snow falling heavily. He sits up, then winces at the pain in his gut. He reaches for his wound only to scratch at bandages underneath a baggy t-shirt that definitely doesn't belong to him. Neither do the sweats he's wearing. He's on a leather couch and a blanket pools around his legs. He touches the brown leather quietly, running over claw marks where it's frayed away.

The place is a little barren, like it's just beginning to be put together. There are no photographs, and very few pieces of furniture. The dark metal, spiral staircase disappears into the ceiling, and is one of the only ornate pieces in the entire room. Stiles slowly gets to his feet but immediately sits back down when his vision swims. He pinches the bridge of his nose, blinking furiously, trying to get his head back. The loud clink of a door calls his attention to the large gaping hole in the brick wall across the room. Derek comes walking in quietly, and he's got blood all over his shirt and hands.

"You're up," he states, and his voice is low and gruff and tired.

"Are you okay?" Stiles asks, almost instinctively, looking at Derek's weary form.

"Yeah. This is your blood."

Stiles gags a little bit. "Huh. Well." He shakes his head. "Where's Scott?"

"He's fine. The Alphas took off for the time being." Derek rubs at his neck. "Pretty sure the Argents might've laid some fire into them, but they were gone by the time I got there. Erica and Boyd and Isaac caught up with Scott before the Alphas ripped him apart. Don't know where the hell Peter is, but..." He flops down onto the couch next to Stiles for a nice, long, uncomfortable silence.

"...Did Scott ask about me?"

"Of course he did. I told him you were safe."

Stiles nods. Then, quickly, "What about my da-"

"Scott's texted your dad. Will you relax?"

Stiles pulls his knees to his chest, even though it hurts where the wound stretches. "I am in a creepy apartment with a crazy werewolf. Totally a relaxing event. How about a drink? Bubble bath?"

Derek makes a face and it's one that Stiles is so used to that it almost relieves him. "You're welcome by the way. I could've let you bleed to death in the snow."

"Hey, I've saved your life plenty of times. It's about time you returned the favor," Stiles argues.

"Mmhm." Derek looks dubious.

"I have! I saved you from that wolfsbane bullet. I saved you from drowning when the kanima came after us."

"I don't really know if it counts that the reason you saved me was to make sure your ass didn't get killed."

"It totally counts. If the human has to step up to save the werewolf, maybe you weren't tough enough to save my ass anyway." Stiles smiles. This is good. This is an element he's used to. It's weird because even though Derek is a scary, scary man, Stiles prefers arguing with him, because it's just something he knows he can do well.

"Except I did. A lot."

Stiles huffs, lowering his legs to the floor and rubbing at his belly. "Fine." He feels like his limbs are too heavy to still be attached to his body.

Derek moves a little too fast for Stiles and his hand is pressed to his torso again. Stiles topples backwards onto the couch cushions, staring straight into Derek's eyes, his breath hitching into his throat. The pain seeps away until it only lingers briefly under his skin.

"Th-that. That is a convenient little superpower."

Derek pulls his hand away and shakes it a little as his veins darken and twist. He flexes his fingers then leans back against the cushions. His shoulders sink a little bit and Stiles is a little surprised to see him look so casual.

It's as scary as it is comforting.

"...So... uh. Thanks, I guess. I thought I was a goner."

"You're welcome."

Derek closes his eyes for a long moment. "Why the hell is it snowing in California?"

"Dude. Tell me about it. I thought I'd freeze to death before I bled to death."

"You were pretty cold."

Stiles fusses with his t-shirt. "And the Alphas didn't hurt you?"

"Contrary to your apparent opinion, I can fight."

"I know. You just get pissed off and lose focus and get your ass kicked most of the time."

"Fuck you, Stilinski." Derek huffs. "Should've left you in the snow."

Stiles knows Derek's just throwing a tantrum. "Where are my clothes?"

Derek points to the other room, where Stiles can now see them hanging dry, dripping onto the floor. Stiles's shirt is soaked with blood. He reaches up instinctively and touches his face. It's clean.

"You even cleaned off my face."

Derek doesn't say anything. He just gets up and walks over to the fire. He slides his jacket off his shoulders and lets it flop to the floor. His shirt is sticking to his body, wet and cold. He warms himself by the fire. Stiles watches him for a minute, the lines of his back, the hard outline of his shoulders.

It's weird to think about – Derek taking him back to his place, cleaning him up and bandaging his wounds. "So what are you like... mama wolf protecting her cubs? Making sure we're all clean and well fed and warm?"

"Making sure you're all alive? That's my job."

Stiles feels a smile slide over his lips and a blush creep up the back of his neck. "Does that mean... I'm part of the pack?"

Derek stares. Stiles is suddenly humbled by the realization.

"I mean..." Stiles shrugs a shoulder. "I don't have like. Wolf powers or anything. I'm not completely adept at everything. I can swing a bat okay. I can wield some mountain ash or whatever. But I'm totally out of my element. I just... I don't feel like I can sit around and watch you guys run off to battle and not do anything. Even if I get hurt in the process. I don't want to think I did nothing if there are lives on the line. It's too important."

Derek softens significantly. His features don't look as pointed and angry like they always do. There's this mix of concern and understanding playing in his eyes that's almost unrecognizable.

"You should... you should be more careful. You don't heal like we do. And... And I might not be there next time to save you, you know."

"I know." Stiles shrugs again. "I guess I just have faith that we're going to help each other when the need for it comes. We've been yelling at each other about trust for months now. Maybe we're actually better at trusting each other than we've been letting on, hm? I mean. We fight all the time, but we still keep rescuing each other. Now, I know Scott's just a really awesome dude, but you? I was never really sure why you did it. Why you were so interested in making sure we were safe? Pack mentality?"

"...Maybe."

"You said I saved you because I needed you. Maybe you did the same for me?"

Derek turns back to the fire. "Why are you talking about all this _need_ stuff?"

"What, you don't think you need anyone? You have a whole pack of wolves out there proving otherwise." Stiles crosses the floor and tugs on Derek's shirt. "Come on, man."

Derek whirls on Stiles, suddenly angry, his eyes flashing red. "Do you know how fucking close you came to dying out there? _Do you?!_"

Stiles stumbles back a little bit, stammering, "Uh- yeah, maybe? I guess?"

"You're lucky I showed up when I did. You've been running along behind Scott, running right into death. Do you know how stupid that is? Death doesn't effect you, stupid. It effects everyone around you. You're not around to face the consequences."

Stiles swallows. He remembers saying something similar to Lydia. Anger boils inside of him. "You don't think I know that?! You're not the only person who's ever lost someone, Derek! I watched my mother waste away _every day_ in that hospital bed and I kept asking why the hell I couldn't do anything about it, and when I finally am able to do _something_ for _someone_?! Why the hell wouldn't I take that opportunity? Why the hell would I stand on the sidelines? I'm tired of standing there and watching people die. Maybe I'm tired of being the one to face the consequences-" Stiles cringes, his wound protesting, his eyes rolling up toward the ceiling.

Derek grabs Stiles and helps him to the floor. Stiles gulps air, spots playing before his eyes, his face hot. "I'm sorry," Stiles says, his voice raw. "It's... been a long night." He rubs at his eyes, trying to fight the tears that have sprung to them.

Derek sits with him for a long time and doesn't say anything. Stiles cries, and he's embarrassed about it, but Derek doesn't make any snide comments. He just sits there and looks on. Stiles sniffs and looks up at him, waiting for him to do something. When Derek doesn't, Stiles crawls closer and wraps his arms around him.

Derek stiffens. Then, a large hand claps up on the back of Stiles's shoulder, and he hugs back.

"I don't want anything to happen to any of you. I'm responsible for making sure you're safe."

Stiles laughs a little as he pulls back, wiping away the rest of his tears. "I mean, as long as you don't kill me we're in pretty good shape."

Derek almost laughs. Almost. Stiles's hand is still on the back of Derek's neck. It's weird and intimate and Stiles doesn't really know what's going on. He just feels like he gets it a little better now. And there's this crazy warm, crazy-good feeling in his chest that makes the pain in his gut vanish and his eyes feel a little less heavy. Then Derek pulls away and the moment ends.

"I should probably take you home. Your dad will freak out. I really don't need all the police in Beacon Hills chasing me again."

Stiles sighs, nodding. "Y-yeah. I'm... you're right."

Stiles puts on his beat up, still soaked sneakers, grimacing at the squish in them as he puts them on. Derek throws him his leather jacket.

"Wh-"

"You don't get to keep it."

Stiles shrugs it on, feeling like it swallows him, but also feeling a little badass because that's what leather jackets do. "O...kay."

They walk down the big metal stairs and out the large doors to Derek's Camaro. The drive back is completely silent and Stiles feels like maybe something has gone horribly wrong. He hugs Derek's jacket close to his body and tries to stay warm.

When they reach his house, it's dark.

"Looks like Dad might be on a date or something."

"Date?"

"Yeah... he's been talking to Scott's mom a lot lately. Who knows? Maybe Scott and I will end up actual brothers."

"You okay with that?"

"Uh. Yeah."

Stiles and Derek walk to his front door in the glow of the streetlights. The snow crunches under Stiles's feet. He thinks very seriously about maybe building a snowman tomorrow if he feels up to it. He slowly peels Derek's jacket off and hands it back to him.

"Here. Thanks."

Derek is stiff as a board. "You're welcome."

Stiles turns to the door, then stops himself. "Can we argue or something, because this is just weir-"

Derek kisses him hard, pushing him against the door. Stiles makes a noise against his lips before his eyes rolls shut and his arms tangle around his neck. It's different than kissing girls. There's scratchy stubble and a different type of power. Stiles feels like he's actually being swept off his feet. Derek's hands are huge, and it feels like they're the only thing holding him on the planet. When he pulls away, the cold air hits Stiles's lungs and it's like he's forgotten what breathing feels like. He looks at Derek, full of questions, but he definitely doesn't have any to provide. There's fear in his eyes. That is something Stiles is certain of.

Derek clears his throat, turns on his heel, and heads back to the car.

"Okay, that's cool," Stiles yells after him. "Like. See you later or something. I guess."

Smooth.

He's standing on his stoop, shivering as Derek drives away.

The weird thing is, though, is that he doesn't feel the least bit cold.


End file.
